


the scent of bergamot lingers

by AlphaBanana



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Cunnilingus, F/F, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:14:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28300692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaBanana/pseuds/AlphaBanana
Summary: Wayhaven is all a-flutter with the news that Tulip Hall has been purchased by one N. Sewell - one resident more than all others.
Relationships: Female Detective/Natalie "Nat" Sewell
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39





	the scent of bergamot lingers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evil_bunny_king](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_bunny_king/gifts).



**MISS KATHRYN KINGSTON**

Wayhaven is all a-flutter, even more than normal, with the news that Tulip Hall, so named for the abundance of blooms guarding the grounds from passers-by, has been purchased for a princely sum.

No-one is more a-flutter than Aunt Clara, who fusses at the best of times but practically _vibrates_ at the thought of what the mysterious _N. Sewell_ must be like.

“He must be new money. Those are the only men still rich enough to purchase such an estate out of hand.” Regardless of whether or not that is true, Kathryn cannot help thinking that _new_ money is better than _no_ money. The Kingstons were a proud family—companions to the German princes and princesses in London in happier times—but one that has experienced many hardships since the city has gradually leeched their workers and tenants with the promise of riches beyond anything a mere gentleman could offer them, let alone one barely into his majority, as her brother Frederick is.

“Well, the only polite thing to do would be to visit.” Aunt Clara waves a hand airily, and Kathryn wonders just how many mothers and aunts are having this exact conversation across the county, since the arrival of new blood in such a settlement as Wayhaven is a once-in-a-generation event.

And so, Kathryn is now being looped carefully into stays by her mother, who has resurfaced briefly from her fresh, wide-eyed grief to see that Kathryn is presentable for the journey.

Kathryn flinches slightly at the touch of Rebecca’s hand, cold and unyielding on her shoulder, and the cold seeps into Kathryn even through the layers of fabric shielding her form from view.

“You deserve to be made happy, as I was.” _Was_ , always _was_ , and Kathryn has never felt more envious of Freddie who is in the city, trying to engage himself in enterprise to regain some of the lost Kingston fortune.

“I know, Mama.” However redundant it feels to call Rebecca _Mama_ , the platitude leaves her lips as easily as breathing, her understanding of _what is expected_ as perfect as always.

She is bundled into a carriage bound for Tulip Hall forthwith. Aunt Clara is fussing, reminding her of her manners ( _only speak when spoken to directly, do not let your gaze wander_ ). Mercifully, then, they have arrived, and Tulip Hall is as beautiful and palatial as she had dreamed and feared, all pristine marble and sandstone, and Kathryn tries to straighten her spine under the weight of expectation. She smooths down her dress, ivory trimmed with a green that matches her eyes, as the footman aids her descent from the carriage.

The man escorts them to the parlour, already cluttered with trinkets and artefacts in the scant weeks since the occupant’s arrival, and Kathryn has to resist the urge to touch some of the more interesting ones, with their bright colours and patterns which speak to their foreign heritage.

“Nasty, heathen things.” Aunt Clara scoffs, before she carries on, unheeding of Kathryn’s glare. “Still, he is clearly a man of letters, and a man who can afford to buy an estate of this magnitude having already travelled the world would make an awfully fine husband.”

Kathryn barely registers Aunt Clara’s musings, instead feeling her heart hammer against her rib cage and a feeling of inexplicable _foreboding_ settles there – surely nothing, merely the stays being too tight, or the warm air in the parlour, or—

“My apologies, ladies. I did not mean to keep you waiting.”

The hue of Aunt Clara’s face hovers somewhere between magenta and puce, and Kathryn cannot bear to think of what colour her own face must be because _N. Sewell is a woman_. Quite possibly the most beautiful that Kathryn has ever seen, and certainly the tallest.

Kathryn has noticed women – one would be hard-pressed not to when one’s constant companions are all themselves of a female persuasion. And yet at the balls in Bath which she is coerced to attend, it is the ladies, with their soft curves and shining eyes, which always catch her eye, not the gentlemen. She reasons that that is because it is the purpose of such events – they are trying to catch the eye of a potential suitor or, more likely, their suitor’s family.

Sewell, however, puts all of those women to shame, with the rich walnut of her skin, her lush lips and her deep brown eyes which were warm enough to make Kathryn feel faint.

Miss Sewell is dressed in the garb of a gentleman, with tailored coattails flaring slightly at the hip to accentuate her lean silhouette, and her chest heaves slightly as if from exertion. _Riding, perhaps_ , and Kathryn must fight off another blush at that thought.

Despite all of Aunt Clara’s coaching in the carriage, that she should, under no circumstances, speak unless directly spoken to, Kathryn cannot help but feel that she must intervene, since Clara seems to be experiencing a shock so profound that she has lost the faculty of speech.

“We were pleased to find you at home. Someone as well-travelled as you must be in the habit of wandering frequently.” Kathryn’s eyes find the curious artefacts again of their own accord, and Miss Sewell’s eyes light up.

“Quite.” Miss Sewell coughs, before continuing. “The countryside here is thoroughly beautiful, and Tulip Hall is thankfully no exception.” And then comes a statement which makes Kathryn’s blood heat in her veins.

“Though I have no doubt that Wayhaven presents other attractions.”

The pair of them start slightly, as if doused in ice-cold water, as Aunt Clara seems to come to life again at the mention of the town, and reels off lists of local estates and landed gentry who would only be too happy to host such an eminent newcomer to the community, with eligible bachelors to match.

And _Miss_ Sewell is far too gracious and polite to say so with words, but Kathryn almost giggles at the barely suppressed eye roll at the mention of _eligible bachelors_.

“I have usually preferred the attractions of a life well-travelled. Paris, Florence, Constantinople – the architecture is quite beautiful.” Miss Sewell seems to shake her head, as if to stir herself from a daze. “I wonder if you have had the pleasure, Miss Kingston?”

Kathryn cannot describe the wave of emotions that crest over her when she hears her name on Miss Sewell’s tongue. “I—”

“Regrettably, she has not. But she is a well-read girl, all the same.” Aunt Clara means well, she does, and it is with increasing difficulty that Kathryn reminds herself of that every time that she is interrupted, every time that Miss Sewell’s hypnotic gaze darkens with a disappointment as potent as Kathryn’s own.

Aunt Clara has been talking for what feels like aeons about the last ball they attended in Bath (a dreadfully dull affair, with little in the way of conversation or intellectual stimulation), when Miss Sewell interrupts her, and if Kathryn were a better artist she would have tried to capture in miniature the indignant expression on Aunt Clara’s face before the older woman stops to hear Miss Sewell’s words.

“Perhaps _I_ will host such a function. As the first of my neighbourly visitors, you would of course be invited.” Miss Sewell’s words are in response to Aunt Clara’s ramblings, true enough, but her eyes are fixed on Kathryn with a small smile playing on her lips that makes Kathryn flush for reasons far beyond the ambient warmth of the cosy parlour.

“Of course,” Kathryn almost whispers, and Miss Sewell’s eyes light up, even as she turns to face Aunt Clara who is happy to accept on the behalf of the whole family, and Miss Sewell stands and bows in her riding gear and promises to send out the invitations that very day.

Aunt Clara is waddling to the carriage, chatting animatedly to the footman, when Miss Sewell takes Kathryn by the hand, Kathryn almost leaping out of her skin at the contact (her hand is soft and warm, _so warm_ ) before attempting to still her frantic heart.

“I very much look forward to seeing you again, Miss Kingston.” Miss Sewell’s thumb brushes the inside of Kathryn’s wrist and it is all Kathryn can do to _gape_.

“I—” Something about the other woman makes Kathryn weak at the knees like a callow girl, and she averts her eyes to give herself time to be able to speak as coherently as dignity dictates.

“I will consider it the greatest honour, Miss Sewell.”

The lady looks like she wants to say something else, but seems to think better of it at the sight of _something_ over Kathryn’s shoulder – most likely an impatient Aunt most eager to begin gossiping about their host.

“Good day to you, Miss Kingston.” There is a sadness in her brown eyes that seems to be from more than just parting, and Kathryn wants—but they have no more time.

“Good day, Miss Sewell.”

**

“Well, she is a very queer woman and no mistake. Riding gear – ha!” Aunt Clara has been vacillating between fretting, fawning and scoffing at every turn the carriage makes, and it is all Kathryn can do to keep her face neutral while she thinks of the feeling of Miss Sewell’s skin against hers.

“Still, her father or brother must be quite wealthy to allow for such an expense – the ball will hardly be a waste.” And for the first time that day, nay, that _month_ , nay, her whole _life_ , Kathryn is in full agreement with her aunt.

The days in the interim seem to pass like treacle, even with the dress fittings and the general fuss that always accompanies such an event, and finally, _finally,_ it is the day of the ball. Kathryn cannot control the way her fingers twitch, making her stitches crooked and almost making her rip the gossamer-thin page of one of her few remaining books, and she seeks out her brother to settle her nerves.

Frederick, darling Freddie, is already ready, dressed in his finest muslin ruffles and tails (something from their late father’s collection, she thinks), and admiring his lean frame in the mirror.

Freddie was typically described as beautiful by any woman with whom Kathryn had exchanged more than two words, with golden curls and large blue eyes framed with thick lashes. Almost definitely prettier than Kathryn, his own sister, yet she has never minded that - she has never wanted their eyes on her, watching for her missteps.

“So, Mr. Sewell is a Miss? What luck!” Freddie straightens his ruffles in the mirror and waits for her approving nod behind him – but she is still trying to parse what he meant.

“Why is that lucky?”

“Because! She has become, overnight, the most eligible maid in the country, the kingdom, even! Think, Kathy,” and her heart hurts at the familiar pet name, used so often in their youth when they were _happy_ , “no more food rations, no more borrowing from cousins Charlotte and Amelia. And a companion for as long as you yourself are unwed.

“You mean to _marry_ her?” Kathryn cannot describe why that idea irks her so, why it feels like someone is sticking embroidery needles into the soft skin at her breast, and shakes herself, letting flaxen curls fall from her loose braid.

“What else would I mean to do? She is a lady of means, we are a house of at least some repute. She cannot expect to _spend_ that wealth.”

 _She seems happy as she is_ , and Kathryn cannot describe why she is so protective of this woman and it is with a heavy sigh that she leaves to ready herself for the evening ahead.

**

The Kingstons arrive at the ball in a modest enough carriage, with Freddie in his blue and Kathryn in her white, with the finest ribbons she could lay her hands on.

Miss Sewell wears a dress this time, ivory with coppery silk accents that gleam as she moves through the throng around her.

“Thank God Almighty.” Aunt Clara’s voice is gravely serious, even as she crosses herself, as if to guard against the indignity of a woman in trousers, but Kathryn thanks God Almighty for an entirely different reason as her eyes take in as much of Miss Sewell as she can see while separated from her by a sea of admirers and well-wishers.

Frederick cannot even hope to approach the lady, and Kathryn has to stop the stab of _Schadenfreude_ at that, remembering that he is trying to help their family, and that she will not very well be able to admire Miss Sewell if they are homeless in a ditch.

Kathryn tries to relax, tries to dance with the odd few bachelors who ask it of her (mostly militia men, perhaps the odd Colonel), and by the time she has escaped to an isolated balcony she almost manages to forget about Miss Sewell until—

“Miss Kingston, I am so pleased you could come.”

Kathryn is not a short woman, by any means. But there is something about how she must crane her neck to look the other lady in the eye that makes a shiver run down her spine, and it is all she can do to stammer a response.

“I am pleased to be here – and to see you so settled in your new home.”

“I had been thinking that Tulip Hall would be merely a summer residence. The more I think on it, the more foolish that notion seems to me.”

They chat a little more, of Mrs Radcliffe and Mr Shelley (who, in Miss Sewell’s opinion is an overrated and inveterate _cad_ – _Mrs_ Shelley, on the other hand, shows great promise, and when Miss Sewell offers to lend Kathryn _The Modern Prometheus_ she thinks her heart may burst).

Before much longer, Miss Sewell pauses, seemingly flustered, and Kathryn must pause a moment to admire the barely-visible flush on high cheekbones.

“I—I find it an unseemly thing to boast of - but I find that I have a great many books in my library and yet no system by which to order them. If you were to have the leisure, I—”

“Yes!”

Unadulterated embarrassment courses through Kathryn’s veins at her haste, and she coughs to mask her discomfort. “That is, I would take great pleasure in such a task.”

“Excellent.” Miss Sewell seems as pleased by her eager answer as she is by the response itself, and a small smile curves lips that would put Venus herself to shame. “Then I shall send a note by my man when I have found all of the relevant boxes.”

“Excellent.” Kathryn feels a nervous excitement that she has not felt in what feels like millenia, and for a moment her smile is genuine and unbridled.

That moment hangs heavy in the air between them, and Kathryn almost feels grateful for Aunt Clara’s shrill summons for how they cut through the tension of the moment like butter.

“Until then, Miss Kingston.” Miss Sewell’s voice is warm and kind, as it has ever been, and yet there is a promise in her tone which makes Kathryn shiver, and she can do little more than offer a small curtsey before hurrying to find her Aunt, cheeks blazing. 

And Kathryn finds herself thinking, in the carriage on the way back home, that if Miss Sewell’s warmth burns her up, if it consumes her like dry tinder, it will be a fine way to go.

**

There is a moment, weeks later, still sorting through the seemingly endless crates of books with curious names (and even more curious pictures, when Kathryn cannot stave off her curiosity any longer) when Kathryn catches sight of Miss Sewell and realises that she is still _Miss Sewell_.

Despite the usual ease between them, Kathryn’s words stick in her throat. “I—”

“Yes?” Miss Sewell’s eyebrow is raised slightly, a small smile playing on the corner of her lips.

“I wonder—” And then Kathryn curses her boldness, lowering her eyes and averting her gaze.

“No matter, it is foolish.” She manages to murmur, and in an instant Miss Sewell is by her side, one long finger tipping her chin back so that green eyes meet warm brown.

“It could not be foolish if you wish to ask it, dearheart.” Miss Sewell’s voice is kind, gentle, and Kathryn has felt that lacking for so long now that her mind stutters and stalls at the endearment, unable to even begin to form a full sentence.

“Call me Kathryn. Please.” She remembers her manners at the last moment, and Miss Sewell’s eyes are _warm_ , like a hearthfire, and her smile lights up her beautiful face.

“Only if you call me Natalie.”

“Natalie.” The name feels like it fits in Kathryn’s mouth somehow, and for a moment she lets the sensation linger.

Miss Sewell—Natalie, _Natalie_ , **_Natalie_ **—appears to enjoy hearing her name roll off of Kathryn’s tongue as much as Kathryn does.

“Kathryn.” Kathryn has never much liked her name before, not as other women seem to. In Natalie’s mouth, it is warmer than an embrace, sweeter than a song, more reverent than a psalm.

**

In the months that follow, the days when Kathryn does not see Natalie grow few and far between, and soon even Rebecca, distant and withdrawn from a world which has robbed her blind, has noticed the rapport that the young women share.

“You must be careful.” Rebecca cautions, even as she loops Kathryn into her stays so that she can visit Natalie. “Miss Sewell can clearly afford the luxury of idle companionship - you cannot. We must see about finding you a match.”

If Rebecca sees Kathryn’s scowl in the looking glass, she does not mark it.

“Miss Sewell has been good to me, Mama.”

Kathryn pulls away from Rebecca the instant the stays are sorted, and then dismisses Rebecca brusquely, saying that she will finish herself. Kathryn neither remarks upon nor regrets the wounded look on Rebecca’s face.

When Kathryn eventually readies herself (and she curses her stubborn pride, then, at having sent Rebecca away), she discovers that Frederick has taken the carriage to town, and Kathryn feels useless, resentful tears bubble up at how _selfish_ he can be.

But there is nothing else for it. Tulip Hall can surely not be _so_ far?

**

She is barely halfway across the fields to Tulip Hall when the rain begins to fall, relentless and violent, lashing at her dress, ripping her bonnet away even with its ties and pins. At one point, Kathryn nearly trips over a rock, but rights herself in time to not fall (and she has _never_ fallen, always a perfect lady, even in adversity).

It is almost nightfall when Tulip Hall comes into view, and Kathryn manages to make it to the door and ring the bell, leaning against the column as she begs God, or whoever is listening, to let someone hear her.

As if answering her prayer, Natalie, her own angel, appears, and the alarm on her face warms Kathryn’s skin…or perhaps that is something else—

“Kathryn, you—”

But Kathryn has already collapsed, under the pressure of the stays and _oh_ , so much more, and she is _gone_.

**MISS NATALIE SEWELL**

Kathryn is warm, and while that would normally soothe all of Nat’s long-forgotten aches, now she is _too_ warm, and Nat brings her inside and whisks her to one of the waiting guest bedrooms, trying not to stare as she removes her soaking dress and swaddles her in endless blankets.

She sends word to Kathryn’s mother, who sends little more than a lukewarm note of thanks in return.

It is sometime in the early hours of the next morning when Kathryn’s fever breaks, Doctor Elias murmuring about how she will need rest but that the worst has passed.

And then they are alone, Kathryn dozing softly and Nat watching her, eyes tracing the curving line of her neck, just visible above the layers upon layers of blankets.

When Kathryn wakes, it is to the sight of Natalie laying out fresh, dry clothes for her to wear, and Nat can _hear_ her heart race from across the room.

“What—” Kathryn’s voice is soft but rough, and she coughs a little to clear her throat, the noise making Nat wince in sympathy.

“You came to me yesterday soaked through.”

Nat tries to keep her voice gentle, but there is a tightness behind her words that she cannot hide, not from Kathryn at least, sharp as she is despite her soft curves and manners, and Kathryn opens her mouth to answer, even as Nat scolds her gently.

“What possessed you to travel by foot? The fever you had was bad enough—there are tales of women with putrid fever bad enough to _kill_ —”

“I wanted to see you. I _needed_ to see you.” Kathryn’s voice is still husky from disuse, even after the cough, and the rasp of her desire along Nat’s senses makes her _shiver_.

“Why?” Nat thinks she knows (she _hopes_ she knows, at least, hopes she has not lain awake thinking of burning touches and lingering looks for it to be nothing but her fevered imaginings), but she needs to hear her—

“I—You must know, please—” Kathryn seems to almost choke on the words, and Nat places a hand on hers, revels in the feeling of soft skin, and uses her other to tip Kathryn’s chin up to meet her eyes.

“I want you to tell me, dearheart. Please.” And it must be Nat’s begging which seems to soothe Kathryn’s nerves just enough for her to answer, sitting up and pushing off the blankets, and it is all Nat can do to keep eye contact rather than let her eyes run along Kathryn’s clavicle and wish it was her tongue instead

“I care for you. Deeply. More deeply than I should.”

Nat brushes a soft kiss against Kathryn’s cheek, and the blonde’s breathy exhale and the rhythm of her heart booming louder than the thunder still raging outside are encouragement enough to place a small kiss at the corner of Kathryn’s cupid’s bow, and swallow the gasp that leaves Kathryn at the contact, before slim fingers are weaving their way into Nat’s loose ponytail, working the ribbon loose to reel her in again, and Nat is all too happy to be caught

Nat’s blood is molten lava as she lets herself touch flaxen curls that have been calling to her from the very first day, and they are softer than the finest silks from the Eastern trading routes Nat had frequented as a child.

Although Kathryn arches into Nat’s touch, silently asking for more, she seems uncertain, pulse uneven and fingers trembling slightly against Nat’s free wrist, and it is with a boldness that Nat does not truly feel that she asks for permission to kiss Kathryn “elsewhere”.

“Elsewhere?” Brows are drawn into a puzzled frown and Nat aches to smooth them out but she, once burning, is now frozen in place, waiting for Kathryn’s permission.

“Show me.”

The demand is breathy but no less authoritative, and Nat’s hands trace the contours of Kathryn’s spine before Nat dips her head to lave at her pulse point, feeling Kathryn jerk in the circle of her arms.

“ _Oh_ —”

Kathryn is boneless in her arms, trying to cling to Nat, but her fingers loosen with each of Nat’s careful movements, and when Nat pulls away and looks down, she can see her handiwork, in a place that a shawl will _just_ cover. Not for the first time this fated night, Nat thanks whatever god is listening for the inclement weather of the season, both for bringing them together and for shielding the marks of Nat’s passion from an equally inclement world.

“Is that—” Kathryn’s dazed voice drags Nat from her reverie, and she tries to soothe some of the marks with her tongue, revelling in Kathryn’s lengthy moan at the sensation.

“Is that elsewhere?” Kathryn sounds satisfied, and Nat feels her lips drag into a slow smile.

“It is _an_ elsewhere.” And she almost _laughs_ at the shock on Kathryn’s face before she realises that some of it is more than shock – Kathryn’s green irises are almost entirely swallowed by the black of her dilated pupils, and her breath hitches in an alluring gasp.

“ _Oh_ —” Kathryn seems to struggle with herself for a moment, before trying to speak again.

“Let me—I _want_ —"

Kathryn seems to grow frustrated at the words which will not come, and Nat tips her head to give her access and permission and _oh_ , Nat has had lips at her throat before but never like this, never in such a way that the heat seeps into her soul. The sweet scent of bergamot lingers on Nat’s skin as she lets her eyes flutter closed for just a moment of pure bliss, moaning a little louder than she had intended at the attentions.

Kathryn stops immediately, and Nat strangles a groan in her throat.

“I apologise, it was not my intention to hur—”

“I am not hurt, dearheart.” Nat lets an almost sinful smile curve her lips, even as she tries to catch her breath from being dangled off a cliff face by an angel’s lips. “On the contrary, I was enjoying it _very much_.”

For a while, Kathryn seems content to continue exploring what walnut skin is available, touches gentle and hesitant. But then, ivory fingers begin to push aside more and more fabric, and Nat stands to whip off her shirt in one smooth motion before returning to Kathryn’s side, where she has wanted to be ever since she first laid eyes on her.

Nat hums in approval as Kathryn presses soft lips to hers again, and there is a wanting, a _hunger_ for _something_ in her kisses that leaves Nat breathless. Anything that she has experienced before pales in comparison to this, to Kathryn, with her rapier-sharp wit and her (usually) iron-clad, perfect decorum and her _warmth_ simmering under the surface, burning more brightly than the sun, so bright she is blinding (and if Kathryn were the last thing Nat ever saw on this earth she could be content).

Nat lets her fingers run down Kathryn’s body, lets them linger at the flare of her hips, before trailing them towards the edge of Kathryn’s shift, rucking up on the bed.

Nat’s eyes are searching, and Kathryn’s eyes are wide and almost fragile in her silent wanting.

“We—There is no need—It need not be tonight. Or any night, if you do not wish it.”

“I wish it, I just—” Kathryn’s breath comes in heavy pants now, distracting her from her own thoughts, and Nat waits patiently, strung tight, for her to continue.

“I do not know what to wish for. I need you to show me.” Nat almost groans at that expression of _need_ , before she begins to lavish her attention on Kathryn in earnest.

Nat’s fingers find a home between Kathryn’s legs, and Kathryn is already so wet for her that Nat’s own legs press together at the sensation. Nat sets a leisurely pace at Kathryn’s nub, rubbing gently and swallowing Kathryn’s moans with kisses that are filled with more than mere lust, until Kathryn is leaning back to remove her shift over her head altogether and _oh_ , she is _radiant_ , soft curves and divine constellations that Nat cannot stand to spend another second not tasting.

Kathryn’s fingers find the waistband of Nat’s trousers, apparently not content with finding her own bliss even as Nat continues her ministrations, and Nat allows Kathryn to push the trousers down as far as she can, helping to kick them off when they are low enough.

Kathryn lets her fingers slide through Nat’s folds, and though her fingers tremble slightly they burn like a brand, and Nat leans forward to bite at Kathryn’s shoulder, careful not to break the skin, savouring Kathryn’s moans in the air.

When Kathryn’s hands falter ever so slightly, Nat takes the opportunity to begin making a pilgrimage down Kathryn’s body, mapping the contours of her body with her lips, becoming distracted with a different taste of paradise every few inches until she reaches Kathryn’s core and finds Arcadia there.

Kathryn’s moans are a symphony to rival any orchestra, and Nat conducts her, with crescendos and diminuendos and aching ritardandos that make her quake underneath Nat’s tongue, and—

And then Kathryn is shaking apart, delicate fingers tangled in Nat’s hair, _finally_ unbound and loose from its tie, and Nat savours every moment, before bringing her fingers down to desperately find her release, panting against the soft flesh of Kathryn’s inner thigh as her world narrows in focus to the feeling of skin on skin and her nerves _sing_.

“I—” Kathryn’s pupils are still blown wide, and Nat notes with no small amount of pride that her breathing is still ragged, even as she tries to trail her fingers down Nat’s torso, and once more Nat feels her skin spark like dry tinder. “I didn’t—I could have—” And there is a curious kind of guilt in Kathryn’s eyes which Nat cannot _bear_.

“Hush, dearheart.” Nat’s lips return to Kathryn’s temple, and she feels Kathryn relax against her. “You were perfect— _are_ perfect.” The word does not come lightly, it never has, and Nat feels Kathryn’s skin heat at the vibration of her voice against her skull.

“I would—” Kathryn buries her head in the crook of Nat’s neck then, as if she seeks strength or solace, and continues in a voice that could barely be called a whisper. “If I could, I would stay with you always.”

Nat feels her heart flutter in her chest, and fights to keep her voice level. “Why can you not?”

“What?” Kathryn’s voice is tight, then, filled with a wary hope that Nat wants to protect and nourish as she does Kathryn herself.

“Stay with me.” Nat doesn’t mean her voice to sound so hopelessly _broken_ , and yet—

“Yes.” And with one word from Kathryn Kingston, Natalie Sewell is complete.


End file.
